


The Unbearable Lightness of Being

by Melo_Mapo



Series: War & Peace [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Pre-Slash, TONIGHT WE GO TO FEELSTOWN, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7186043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melo_Mapo/pseuds/Melo_Mapo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Max is back." </p><p>Little did Furiosa know that, at the end of that day, there would be some dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unbearable Lightness of Being

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: please look at the end notes, though there's nothing graphic or violent, and rating is fully appropriate.
> 
> Otherwise, thanks for coming, and enjoy! I've been obsessed with Mad Max lately so this is just a first dabble.

“Max is back.”  
It’s The Dag, followed by Little Joe. The toddler just turned 600 days and now talks and walks, though the steps are unsure and the babble mostly unintelligible.    
Furiosa feels both a pang of thrill and a sense of doom. Max is the kind of man who always comes with trouble, and the Citadel, much like Little Joe, is still barely standing.  
She calmly unfastens the wrench from her artificial harm and replaces it with the metal hand. Placing the wrench attachment in its dedicated spot above her work table, she turns off the violent light that illuminates it, throws a piece of fabric over her project so it doesn’t get gripped with dust and says:  
“Let’s go. You can explain as we walk.”  
The Dag nods, grab her son’s hand, and lead the way out of the workshop.   
“He’s with the traders that established camped yesterday.”  
Furiosa grunts.  
“The slavers? Doesn’t look like him to travel with that scum.”  
The Dag sighs:  
“He’s a slave.”  
Furiosa facepalms.   
  
+++  
  
Thankfully, the traders ignore the real worth of the man they’re detaining. They ‘found him’ way out north, injured and delirious with fever. More like they attacked him, robbed him, and decided to keep him too when they realized he was mostly whole and a full-life.   
They’ve kept him sedated rather than chained, because they had him pull a cart, but Furiosa fails to think it a small grace: he’s sunburn and confused, more ragged than she’s ever seen him. The only thing she’s thankful for is that the drug’s not addictive: a good night’s sleep and it will wear off entirely, no after effects – or so the slavers say. If Max hasn’t escaped yet, it means he’s been drugged to the gills the whole time: she remembers very well how, half drained of his blood, he still managed to drag Nux and fight with the skill of a true Wastelander.   
  
They are all survivors in this world, but some more than others.   
  
The Council has voted: there will be no trading with slavers. It’s not the kind of place they want to be. So Furiosa sends out her stealthiest War Boys, Sharp in the lead, and when the chiefs of the slavers come to bargain, they’re confronted with a choice: leave with their lives, but no slaves, or die. There’s incredulity, outrage, and protests.   
  
Furiosa shots the loudest slaver.   
  
The other ones take the deal.  
  
After that, it’s simpler: when the chiefs return to their camp, eager to flee and hoping to take their slaves along still, they find the camp under Citadel control, and their meagre remaining wealth packed away already. The War Boys wave them goodbye with a volley of fire, and Toast lays an arm on Furiosa’s shoulder, her expression fierce and satisfied:  
“We have some morals, but it doesn’t make us weak,” she says.  
Capable snakes her other arm round Furiosa’s waist:  
“Necessary evil,” she ads, and it’s one of those Old-World terms Miss Giddy had taught them, back in the day.   
  
Furiosa rolls her eyes. Sometimes, the girls forget that she used to be a Wife, and made herself into an Imperator. The word ruthless was invented for her.   
  
All the same, she hugs them back.   
  
+++  
  
Furiosa has Max taken to the Council Room. They ushered the other ex-slaves to Medical, but even cleaned up and rid of cages, Medical still is where Max hanged as a Blood Bag. Furiosa suspects that if Max sobers up to an environment he only knows as hostile, he’ll try to make a run for it and might endanger himself and others in the process.   
  
The Council Room it is. That’s what they transformed the Vault into. It’s a neutral, public space now: the door stays open at all time, people can come in, and take grievances and ideas to the Council Members on shift. There are cushions and carpets on the floor to sit comfortably, piles of papers and books and desks with chairs along the walls, and potted plants growing everywhere. That’s where the Vuvalini keep the plants too fragile for the open air, and too decorative to get farmed in the antechamber.  
   
As long as you take of your shoes at the door, and mind the plants and their fragrant flowers, you’re welcome anytime.  
  
There’s a smaller room on the side where they store maps, more books, and posters. There’s also a ratty but comfortable cot in a corner for the Council Member on duty at night, or whoever wants to nap but also to stay close to the action. That’s where Furiosa joins Bambi, a War Boy who used to be part of her crew in the Immortan Days, as he levels Max down on the cot. The Wastelander is still out of it, eyes drifting, but not in this jumpy, manic way that says he’s seeing one of his Ghosts. Right now, his gaze is so unfocused he doesn’t seem to see anything much. He’s tripping hard.   
  
The War Boy respectfully bows his way out, having carefully abstained from asking questions, which Furiosa is grateful for, and she is left with Max, The Dag, Berta, and a gaggle of toddlers. Berta is a large, pale woman with brown hair, one of the Milking Mothers who got elected to represent them at the Council. They decided to keep their name, because they still provide milk, though only for the Citadel kids now. They are every baby’s nannies, in the hope that their full-life milk might help half-life babies. Also, now that the Wretched – the Citizens, Furiosa corrects herself – are working in the gardens, the need for a day-care system was high, and the Milking Mothers were happy to take it up. Hence why Berta, even while on duty as Council Member, is surrounded by children, feeding one with a bottle while another sucks at one of her enormous breasts, all the while reprimanding a third one, who’s a tad older, almost a Pup, and currently climbing a bench to a access a desk covered of very important papers and easily breakable inkwells. Thankfully, The Dag catches the adventurous menace before sitting her with her own Little Joe and handing them both sand-filled balls to play with.   
  
Furiosa sighs and sits on the ground next to the cot, so that she can both keep an eye on Max and see outside. Kids are not her forte, but if someone has to keep one from burning down the room, she’ll do it.   
  
+++  
  
Furiosa must have dozed off, because she slowly realizes that there is music reaching her ears. The Dag’s ethereal laugh fully wakes her up and, when she opens her eyes, she has to blink several times before she can believe what she sees. Berta and the toddlers left, replaced by Capable, who’s sitting with Little Joe asleep on her lap, turning the handle of an Old-World music maker set on a desk by her side. There’s a flat, round, black disc spinning, and bathed in the notes of a slightly melancholic song, The Dag is waltzing with Max. The sun is low on the horizon, its soft light making the woman’s hair blaze even whiter than they are, and Furiosa’s brain purveys her with the word and picture of ‘angel’, though she has no idea where and when she learned it.  
  
But Max, oh Max, that’s the real shock.   
  
It’s like the man has shed years, changed skin. There’s a beatific smile on his face, no limp as he moves gracefully, his hand barely touching The Dag, the two of them seemingly floating above the carpet. He twirls the woman, and her laughs rings again. She lets go of his hand, falls back by Capable, out of breath. How long has this been going on, wonders Furiosa as she gets up and leans in the doorframe, drawn by the scene.   
Max doesn’t mind the lack of partner and continues to move about. The song fades and the next one is quicker, more cheerful. Max doesn’t miss a beat, and sets out to move his arms about rhythmically, matching it with taps of his feet and the occasional shimmy of his buttocks when the music call for something special.   
  
And yes, Max has very fine buttocks, but he honestly looks ridiculous, and Furiosa smothers a chuckle or two. Capable doesn’t have the same qualms and laughs out loud, but it’s delighted rather than mocking. When The Dag relieves her of both Little Joe – still asleep – and of the music-maker’s handle, the redhead joins Max and imitates his movements. Furiosa isn’t sure Max is aware she is, but he sticks by her side as they move across the room.   
  
The music must have brought some attention, become a few Pups, gathered around Toast, come in to investigate. The kids don’t need to be said twice and, after respectfully washing their feet with a wet towel, they join the dance. Toast takes a little more coaxing, but Capable finally lures her in. It’s a real party now, and Max is now definitely aware he has followers, because he turns to face them and, after a few tentative movements, dutifully repeated, leads them into a routine that’s more thought out than his earlier solo flailing.   
  
Furiosa is perfectly content to watch, but she hasn’t been forgotten, and when the dance lesson devolves into an anarchy of wiggling about, both on the part of the young and less young, Capable and Toast forcefully grab her and throw her in the middle of the group.   
“Come on, move like you mean it!” protests Toast when Furiosa settles for tapping one foot.   
Oh, and after all, why not, thinks Furiosa.   
She might still be a General, but she’s not an Imperator anymore, and the Citadel they are trying to build is different. From the deep recesses of her memory, there’s also a small child calling, one that used to dance to the sound of a guitar and flute around the fireplace, cheered on by the Many Mothers.   
  
Furiosa closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and dances.   
  
It’s a little while, a bigger crowd, lit oil lamps, and a second music disk later. The sound is now more savage, with some of that electric moan the guitars of the War Party could make, but there is singing too, a deep voice and a beat that seep in Furiosa’s bones in a way that makes her want to dance more. The oldest of the remaining Vuvalini yells “Rock ‘n’ Roll!” at Furiosa, joy on her face as she leads a War Boy into an energetic duo with twirls and jumps. Her partner has such awe and respect on his face as she directs him that it warms Furiosa’s heart. She might yet make decent men of those war-crazed boys.   
Furiosa loses sight of them in the crowd, but the music’s name, rock ‘n’ roll, sticks with her as she does just that: rocking and rolling. Somehow, she bumps into someone and, when she turns around, there is Max, less haggard, but still smiling a little too wide for a guy who barely knows how to smirk in his regular state. His eyes focus on Furiosa, though, and he mouths something that might be her name. She leans towards him to hear better, gripping his arm with her flesh hand so she doesn’t loose him in the jostle of the dancing bodies, and he seems to take it as an invitation, because he grabs her metal hand and stirs them like the Vuvalini did the War Boy. They dance together for a while and it’s nice. Furiosa fumbles sometimes, because she doesn’t know the moves and sometimes can’t follow Max’s clue. His bad leg must be bothering him too, because he stumbles once or twice, but it feels nice, and Furiosa would have indulged a little while longer if Max’s grip hadn’t suddenly tightened. When she meets his eyes, Furiosa sees panic there, and she immediately understands that the last of the drug wore off. Firmly holding Max’s hand with her flesh hand, she used the metal one to clear the way as she rushes them out of the room.   
  
It’s full night now, but the moon and the occasional oil lamp lit their way as Furiosa takes Max to a quieter space. They cross the green antechamber, turn three corners and walk a few hallways, and she finally drags them in a small room. She sits Max on the bed and draws the curtain that serves as a door before lighting the oil lamp on the small, otherwise bare desk.   
“How are you feeling?” she asks.  
Max shakes his head like a dingo shaking flies.   
“Muddled.”  
Furiosa crouches in front to look him in the eyes.  
“You’ve been under a while. Slavers.”  
Max nods.   
“I remember.”  
Furiosa can’t resist asking:  
“Everything?”  
Catching the smile in her voice, Max groans, and it’s answer enough.  
“Didn’t know you were also a good dancer,” she teases.  
Even in the low light, Furiosa catches redness on Max’s cheeks, and the thought that this man, this Road Warrior, can still blush has her loose some of her countenance, which Max further wrecks with a shy but curious:  
“Also?”  
This time it’s Furiosa’s turn to feel a bit hot. She meant that also as in ‘not only handsome,’ but there’s no way she can tell him that, so she edges:  
“You know, you’re decent in a fight.”  
There’s an awkward pause, and Max seems to be considering something carefully, his eyes not quite meeting hers, before he moves his gaze to a fixed point far from her altogether.   
She waits him out, but he must decide to drop the subject, because when he speaks next, it’s to ask:  
“Tis your room?”  
 “Temporarily.”  
Max’s eyes fleet around the small, Spartan space: a bed, barely a frame with a mattress, a leather suitcase, a desk and a chair. The desk is bare, save for the lamp, and the suitcase is closed and locked. Max takes stock of all that, and of the lack of door, and says:  
“Too exposed?”  
“I still have enemies.”   
She hasn’t told anyone, not even the Sisters, but she’s been building a den, somewhere truly safe where no one can find her. The towers are full of secret passages and rooms, dug out through the years and promptly forgotten as new invaders took control.   
Now that there isn’t someone to watch her at all time, like under Joe’s regime, she’s been free to explore and she has find a nice spot, with two small rooms and three exits, and she’s started to move her real stuff there. But for now she’s still too important in this newborn Citadel to disappear at nights. Her friends need to be able to reach her quickly in an emergency, even if it means her foes might too, so she sleeps light and with War Boys at her non-existent door.   
Max looks over the room once more and states:  
“Tis not your real room.”  
Trust him to read her like an open book when no one else can.  
“How’d you know?”  
“No spare arm.”  
He’s right. Even if she actually keeps her desk and workbench extremely clean, she does have a spare arm hanging from a nail in her ‘real room’.  
“I don’t have one,” she says.  
“Liar.”  
They smile at each other, and this time Max’s smile is completely genuine, small and private, and Furiosa feels something turn and twist in her gut, like the music earlier. There’s a gentle, cool breeze coming in the window from the desert, and maybe she’s still high on the dancing, because she feels like after a fight she won, daring, maybe reckless. Rock ‘n’ Roll, she thinks, and offers her flesh hand to Max:  
“Want to see it?”  
The blush is back, but Max only hesitates a second before clasping his palm on hers.   
  
A Furiosa once more leads them through shadowy hallways, there’s faint music permeating the Citadel, and a new kind of spring in her step.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: mention of Max spending some time enslaved, and drugged, though nothing worse than forced labor happened to him. (Because in the movies II and III he does have a way of being lucky in his bad luck.)


End file.
